Disjointed much?

1. Another minor epiphany today. Well, last night. And maybe it's not so minor. I think I have been going about this all wrong. Wrong from day one. I hope I can right the wrong.

2. Do you think coffee is as bad as people make it out to be? Like, so bad that only a monster would let their 2-year old drink it?

3. Should I have professional photos of the girls done for Christmas this year? I have never done it. At all. Not after birth, not for any holiday, not for any family event. And every year, I say that I am just snapping a photo, having it printed, slapping it into a Christmas card, and mailing them. No fuss, no muss. And every year, I make a mountain out of a molehill, and end up crying at 2am, hovering over glue sticks and glitter and scissors and cardstock of various colors and...

...but don't you think that mail-order Christmas cards are so generic?! I am not particularly touched when i get a photo card in the mail that Costco printed, that says, "Merry Christmas from the Jones'!" They don't even sign them, for God's sake! There is no greeting, nothing even remotely personal about them. Isn't the point to make contact with people you don't normally, and to say a warm hello, and perhaps to update them on what's going on in your life? I am not into novelettes, itemizing what songs Little Timmy can sing and how many BMs the baby has per day. But I generally include a few sentences on a 3" x 4" insert, giving the basics. This year's insert, for example, might read something like:

Hi to all of our friends and family,

We moved this year to (new neighborhood) . Anna, age 4, and Emmy, age 3, love the new neighborhood and enjoy practicing the walk to their new (soon to be!) school. This summer, Sabrina started a PharmD program at (new University), and with luck, will graduate in three years. Our therapists feel we made a lot of progress in 2010, and we look forward to an even more exciting 2011!

With warm holiday wishes,

The clan

....or, you know, whatever.

4. Emmy's birthday is in a few days! I wonder how I can make it special for her? We got her a goldfish already, since Anna got one for her 3rd birthday. Anna's goldfish is "Pickles," and has been ticking for a year and a half now! Crazy. Emmy wanted to name her fish "Pickles," which it took a long time to explain why that wouldn't work well. She finally came up with "Alligator." We loved it.

5. Halloween is a few days away. The girls are still waffling on what to dress up as. They both are inclined to be princesses/ballerinas, but I am refusing because it will be too cold. We have everything we need for a witch costume, and we have everything for a Ben Roethlisberger costume, which would be pretty freaking cute. (And practical--I can put 3 sweatshirts on under the jersey for bulking up, and then the kid won't have to wear a coat.) We also have everything to be a doctor. I'm sure we have other things. We have a lot of dress-up stuff. I just need to steer them away from the lacy, glittery, floofy, shiny stuff.

Remember When

Isn't that a great song? I love that song. We played it at our wedding. It paints such a romantic picture of life. Making vows, it being hard, breaking each other's hearts, coming back together, and so on. But one of the lines always nagged at me.

Remember when old ones died and new were born.

See, we have had a lot of babies born. A lot. And we have not had a death in the family in a really, really long time. Not in my family, or in Mike's! Mike lost both of his grandfathers when he was in high school. Long before I knew him. And his near family has not had a death since. My grandmother died when I was in grade school, and my great grandmother when I was in high school. Nothing since. My grandparents have had eleven great-grandchildren born in the past eight years. Mike's Baba has had, gosh, fifteen? more? great-grandchildren born. They kept getting older, and kids just kept on coming. I knew the day would come when it would all fall apart. I dreaded it, but I also felt the circle of life had to continue. I felt we were, I don't know, obscuring nature somehow.

Not that long ago, my grandfather was diagnosed as having early signs of dementia. I don't know if anyone actually used the words Alzheimer's Disease. But his confusion progressed. He wasn't exactly confused though. He was just different. His personality changed. He was anxious. He was cantankerous. Became impossible. It took a year or more to develop. A month or two ago, my grandmother became overwhelmed, and truly could not care for him at home. It devastated her to "give up." But if anything, she did it too long. She eroded her own health trying to care for him. And he was thankless. Nasty. And she was nasty right back. It was really unpleasant to watch. When it was decided that enough was enough, they took my grandfather to the emergency room, where his doctor had him admitted. There was no medical reason. But he had to be an inpatient for some amount of time in order to be eligible for placement in a rehab. The doctor's goal was to strengthen him in rehab so that he could be placed in a long-term skilled nursing facility. But he was unmanageable at rehab. He yelled, banged on tables, hollered that everyone was trying to kill him. "I'm dying! I'm dying! Save me!" He would tell family that they shouldn't have come to see him. He would tell them that they were killing him. Then he'd beg them not to leave, because he was dying! Save him! They started restraining him. Not the legal way, with a prescription and wristbands. They screwed a bedside table over his wheelchair so that he couldn't stand up. They parked him in the hallway this way because he couldn't be left alone. He urinated on the rugs. His anxiety was not being pharmaceutically managed, because they try to avoid drugging up the patients. But he was not sleeping. He could not stay there. It was an awful situation. It was decided that he was not medically in need of rehabilitation, as he was stable, could ambulate, and so on. But his behavior was not manageable. So he was taken to a remote hospital, and placed on the psychiatric ward. He was medically assessed there, and was diagnosed with pneumonia. Within a few days, the pneumonia was in both lungs, and they called one morning saying that he was unable to be woken. The family should come right away. He did rouse when my grandmother got there, and a day or two was spent determining his fate. It was decided that he was eligible for inpatient hospice. He was moved again, and 11 days later, passed away. It was October 8, 2010. He was 91 years and 1 month old.

It's okay with me that he passed away. We lost him a while ago, and he was no longer my happy, exuberant grandfather. He was a prisoner in his body.

Now I just have to worry about my grandmother. Her health is worsening. She was told by one of her physicians that she cannot live alone. She can't stay in her house. It isn't safe. All children concurred. She was told to look for an assisted living facility herself, or that one would be chosen for her. "I ain't goin' anywhere!!" she said. Fuck you all, was her real message. So, I have to wonder. How does it all end?

Sabotage

The last two days have been interesting. On Monday night, Mike cracked his head on the garage door track while exiting our new basement. The track is hung by sharp, steel brackets RIGHT in the doorway, RIGHT at Mike's head level. He identified this on the first day we arrived as a major safety concern. It was annoying to have to duck in and out of the garage, but it would be even more annoying to gash his head or face on the bracket. Which is exactly what he did, one week later. So, ER visit, concussion, no brain bleed, super. Moving on.

I feel really bad about him being hurt. I feel guilty that I didn't make covering the bracket a number one priority after moving. As soon as he showed it to me, on that first day, I was appalled by how dangerous it looked. I thought, "Oh my God, we need to cover that! Now!" But I didn't. And he didn't. We were more concerned with having a pink bedroom, I guess, which is ridiculous. But we had to start somewhere and the basement was low on the list. Unfortunately. I hate that he is in pain and I hate that the kids climb on him and shriek in his ear and I hated that there was JACK-HAMMERING, literally, outside his window in the ER while his head throbbed so badly he couldn't open his eyes.

But. I have this awful feeling of resentment. Every time he is injured or sick, which seems to happen more than should be typical, I have to work harder. More responsibility is dumped on me. I become a single parent. It feels like having a third child. And less help.

This is so unfair of me. I hate feeling this way. I know it's not his fault. I know that he's not happy being injured.

But I can't shake it. I guess I feel like he invites injury. He invites illness. Is this insane? Can someone actually do that? I feel like he takes no responsibility for leading a healthy lifestyle. He doesn't eat well unless I nag him. He is careless. Reckless. It's how he works. How he drives. He injures himself while working all.the.time. And he breaks shit. The other night, in an effort to get started on painting in the girls' room, he emptied the room of all furniture. By yanking, pulling, shoving, and basically behaving like a crazy person. He broke a bookshelf and part of the bunk bed. I don't understand why he can't wait for someone to help him, me, and do things calmly and rationally. To think and plan before acting.

But I have greater insight into the problem. There are two possible explanations, I think, for his consistently rash, careless behavior*.

1. He is sabotaging himself. He is subconsciously validating or confirming his schema. He (super duper) subconsciously feels he deserves to be hurt. He doesn't respect himself, so he doesn't respect his body.
2. He is sabotaging our relationship. I feel that our efforts at being closer, at having something resembling a date or time to connect, are invariably supplanted by his injuries and illnesses.

We are supposed to go out to dinner at some point this weekend, to celebrate selling the house, since his parents will be in town. To make up for the last plan we had to go out, just the two of us, that was cancelled. I have a date planned with a man with a concussion. Ha. I don't think we'll keep our date. Even if we did, if he insisted we still go out, he would feel like shit, and I would feel like shit, and it would have been wasted. Just once, once!, I'd like for us to go out and feel good about it. Have a good time. I cannot recall the last time Mike and I had a good time together.

Good lord this is depressing.

*Gotta love an amateur psychologist, right?

There would be a 10 minute period where I'd be completely inconsolable

We moved. I don't particularly want to bore myself with the details, but since I will never remember what it was like, and therefore will have learned NO lessons for the next time, I will summarize the event.

We got keys to the house last Friday night. We took the girls with us. It was a little surreal. It was very sobering. The place looked like hell. It was cleaned, sort of. Like, swept, I guess. But there were food drippings and splatters on the walls. Slime in the tile grout. A leaky bathroom faucet with wet-rotting wall behind sink. Black (with mold) caulking in tub. Cracking paint in places. Some walls had a lot of spackling. Like, mounds of spackling. Not smoothed. None of the spackled walls were touched up with paint. Random lightbulbs were missing from random light fixtures. The banister was wobbly. The washer was so tiny!

On Saturday morning, I had to go to school. Mike took the girls to my parents', where they would spend the weekend. He spent the day moving stuff in my dad's pickup. Once I was done with school, I joined him. We took one more trip of stuff, ended up fighting (which had little to do with moving and a lot to do with alcohol), and returned to the old house for sleep. On Sunday morning, I went to school again, but thankfully only had a half day. Mike hauled a lot more stuff. He worked so hard. I know he did. On Sunday afternoon we tried to move the last of the loose stuff from the old house, in preparation for the movers the next day. We fought more. We had a lovely dinner with the kids, my parents, and Jessie and Carl that night. We returned to the old house for our last night to sleep there.

On Monday morning, I had to meet the cable person at the new house, and Mike took the girls to school. Mike oversaw the movers at the old house and the packing of all furniture. I waited at the new house and oversaw the unloading of all furniture. While trying to clean. And organize. And it was pretty dreadful. I didn't even know where to start. We picked the girls up from school at the end of the day and took them back to the old house, to say goodbye. We moved the goldfish, the frog potty, and the last couple of plants, and went to our new house. We haphazardly placed mattresses on the floors in the bedrooms and put on sheets. We put the girls to bed. Luckily, they were exhausted, so they fell asleep despite the shoddy arrangements. We found out on Monday, also, that our closing scheduled for Tuesday morning wouldn't happen. Since we couldn't close, Mike felt he needed to go to work. He has been extremely busy at work, and his time away was going to be unpaid, and they really needed him. I understood, but I was also devastated. We were going to do our final cleaning together in the morning before closing. We were going to have our celebratory lunch after the closing. We were going to spend the afternoon together, trying to put the house together. We had a counseling session scheduled together, which I really felt we needed. Instead, all was canceled.

So he went to work very early on Tuesday morning and took the girls to school. I went back to the old house and cleaned. And cleaned. And cleaned some more. It was depressing. I managed to lock myself out of the old house, so took a carload of junk back to the new house, got keys, went back to the old house, and cleaned some more. I was both being thorough, and dawdling. I didn't want to be done. I didn't want to leave our house. Our home. Forever. And I didn't want to be alone in that moment. I cried when I left. I just felt so alone.

I went back to the new house and tried to unpack. And clean. And I didn't know where to put anything. And I felt alone.

The next day I went to work, and the following two days I was home with the girls. So little things were done, and it slowly got better. A little bit each day.

This weekend, things got much better. We were productive. We painted the girls' room pink and put the room together. It is adorable. I think we did a great job. We got the cable/internet/phone situation working. We got the televisions set up. It is getting there. I feel a little less alone.

Everything changes. I know this. The only permanent thing is change. (And my own addition to this: The only permanent things are change and resistance to change.) I am trying to adapt.

The girls are just amazing. They are either the most resilient little creatures ever, or we did an exactly perfect job preparing them for the move. Emmy has been having some accidents, but I definitely anticipated that, being only a month or so potty trained before this major life change. They have been dragged around and kept up way too late. They have their moods, and they cling. I guess this has become a consistent theme for me: I am struggling to meet their needs and minimize their trauma, and in doing so, I am neglecting my own needs and exacerbating my trauma. I suppose I do this a lot. I don't want them to suffer for my being in school, so I never do school work while they're awake. I never take a night off for myself because I should be giving them attention whenever I can. But I have to acknowledge that this is not maintainable.

But it really is getting better. I can see a good, happy future in this house.